My jogging time has been cut drastically.  What happened?  My music studio began a boom that resulted in two dozen lessons a week with the associated paperwork, bookkeeping, lesson prep, and concerto and art song accompaniment practice, often as much as 90 pages—I couldn’t even get through it all once in an hour of playing time.  I no longer had 8-10 hours a week to spend jogging and exercising. So I adjusted the five mile jog down to three, and the exercise to thirty minutes a day instead of 45. But I was still exercising, wasn’t I?  The Lord understands if life gets a little busy.  Maybe, but He won’t alter the formula of calories in/calories out just for me.
            Then foot injuries with the corrective surgeries that followed slowed me down to a walk, and now a chronic illness brings along with it activity restrictions—no exertion, no lifting, no bending over among others.  Suddenly jogging and heavy exercise is a thing of the past, but it wasn’t my fault.  I was doing the best I could.  Yes, but…
            You can look at me and see the results.  It’s pretty obvious.  Returning from one of the many surgeries I have had, I walked into the ladies room and nearly ran over a sixty-something lady with gray hair, all bent over as if the weight of the world were on her.  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, then nearly fainted when I realized it was a mirror and I was talking to myself.  At that point I was barely over fifty.
            But it didn’t happen overnight.  Gradually I had to cut back on the exercise time and gradually the weight piled back on.  Gradually the nearly constant pain put lines in my face and grayed my hair.  Suddenly, I am not only back where I thought I would never be again, but even worse.
            When my problem became apparent, we looked around for a way to fix it.  I now have an elliptical machine in the middle of my kitchen.  I can set the resistance to something my body can handle without harm, and there is no danger of stepping in a hole or tripping over a limb or vine when I “walk,” as often happens these days.  It isn’t quite the same thing, but it is far better than sitting in a chair all day.  My fitness, which will never again be like it was during those years of jogging, is increasing, probably less than one fencepost at a time, but increasing nevertheless.
            Losing your spiritual fitness happens the same way.  It can start when you are suddenly satisfied with your progress and think you have arrived.  You can think that while still saying the words I have heard out of so many mouths, “I know I am not perfect.”  It isn’t just Satan who excels at fooling us. 
            The Hebrew writer reminds us, We must pay closer attention to what we have heard lest we drift away from it, Heb 2:1.  You can wander back one fencepost down the road and still see your way back pretty easily.  But one fencepost will lead to another and another until you have rounded a curve and the goal is no longer in sight.  When you can’t see it, it seems much farther away than it really is, and that’s when you give up—that’s when you say, “Might as well go a little further.  It can’t be any worse.”
            Yes, it can.  You can get caught back there, time ending on a day when you meant to turn around and head back where you belonged, but suddenly it’s too late.  God won’t reset the clock for us either.  So turn back now, while you still can.  Just go one fencepost at a time and you will soon be back around that corner within sight of the goal, making progress, perhaps not as quickly as you would like, but in the right direction, which is all that really counts in the end.
 
"Seek the LORD while he may be found; call upon him while he is near; let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; let him return to the LORD, that he may have compassion on him, and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. Isa 55:6-7
 
Dene Ward
 

I grew up reading and playing the piano instead of playing outside where it was dangerous to someone who couldn’t see well.  As a result, I was about as physically un-fit as anyone could possibly be.  Even after a genius of a doctor fitted my strangely shaped eyeballs with contact lenses more or less successfully in my mid-teens and I could finally see what lay in front of my feet, I had grown accustomed to sedentary activities and preferred them.
            Then I had babies, gained thirty pounds and could hardly walk across the house—which is not exactly large—without gasping for air.  I decided it was time to change things.  Keith had jogged since I had known him.  My closest friend, who lived just across the cornfield from me, also jogged.  Surely I could do this, too, I thought.  But I did not want to be embarrassed by how I looked doing it or by failure if indeed I couldn’t. 
            We lived well off the highway on property not ours, but whose owner allowed us to use it in exchange for the improvements we made to it—tearing down and hauling off a dilapidated frame house, digging a well and septic tank, and putting up a power pole—and for watching the property and livestock for him since he lived a half mile away.  We were surrounded by his fields, including a small hay field and larger cow pasture.  Neither of those could be seen from either the highway or the neighbors’ homes.  So I drove around the fields and measured them with the odometer.  The hayfield perimeter measured a quarter mile and the pasture three-quarters.  Now I could keep track of my progress.
            Nathan was four, so that first day I set him on a hay wagon in the middle of the hayfield and jogged the quarter mile around.  When I finished I thought I might pass out, or die, or both.  The next morning I could hardly get out of bed, but I did and after Keith left for the meetinghouse I jogged again, but this time I went all the way around plus one fencepost further.  Once again I survived.  The next day I went two fenceposts past one lap, and the next day three.
            The hayfield was a rectangle and I was adding my fenceposts on a long side.  When I finally reached the end of that side, I added the whole short side at once making one and a half laps.  The day after that I added half the other long side, then the other half and the last short side, making two whole laps.  Once I could do three laps I moved to the cow pasture.  One lap around the pasture plus one around the hayfield and I had completed a whole mile.  I could hardly believe it.
            I made that progress in one month and lost ten pounds without even trying.  Within six months I was jogging on the highway, a five mile circuit six days a week.  I had lost thirty pounds.  I was never fast.  The best I ever did was the tortoise-like pace of 5 miles in 47 minutes, but it wasn’t the 47 minutes that got me back to my front door that day, it was the fact that I kept going.
            Sometimes we expect too much of ourselves.  I have known new Christians who expected their lives to change instantly the moment they came up out of the water.  They thought sinful attitudes would suddenly morph into godly ones and temptation would be a thing of the past.  Once the adrenaline rush wore off and life became routine, their lack of speedy progress discouraged them.  No one would expect a person such as I was to run five miles the first time she ever tried, but for some reason we expect that in our spiritual progress.  We do have a lot of powerful help, but powerful doesn’t mean “miraculous.” 
            We seem to expect it of others too.  If a person has a failing as a young man, it will be held against him forever.  The fact that he improves is seldom noticed, but let him slip one time, even if it has been ten years, and suddenly everyone is saying, “There he goes again.”  Many of my brethren would never have allowed Peter to reach the eldership for exactly that reason.  Peter’s impetuosity was a problem for him, as was fear of what others thought, even after Pentecost (Gal 2), but he did improve, and those people noticed instead of saying “again,” or he would never have been an elder.
            Do you think others didn’t have problems after their conversion?  Look at the admonitions in Romans 14 and 1 Corinthians 8.  They were still suffering from a background of idolatry.  They couldn’t eat that meat without “eating as a thing sacrificed to an idol” (8:7).  That problem did not disappear overnight.
            Unless we are willing to say that we have reached perfection, none of us believes that it’s how fast we progress that matters.  We all believe that it’s the improvement that God judges.  Some of us have gone farther than others, but if we have stopped and are leaning on the fence, perfectly content with where we are, God will not be pleased with us.  God rewards only the one who is progressing, even if it’s just one fencepost at a time.
 
Brethren, I count not myself yet to have laid hold: but one thing I do, forgetting the things which are behind, and stretching forward to the things which are before, I press on toward the goal unto the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus. Phil 3:13-14
 
Dene Ward
 

A few years ago Keith bought me a leaf blower for Valentine’s Day.  Yes, ladies, I know what you are thinking, but in this case you are wrong.  We don’t do diamonds.  We don’t do gold.  We don’t even do silver-plate.  We have always had to live so closely that any gift-giving occasion is treated as an excuse to buy what we need anyway.  Just ask the boys about the several Christmases when they got bedspreads, sheets, blinds, and even trash cans for their bedrooms.
            I had been spending hours every week sweeping the carport.  It was either that or spend even more time sweeping the house as the sand was tracked in.  With the blower I could get the job done in about five minutes, especially after I learned to handle the thing.  You never turn it on pointed down, unless you want a face full of sand, and be careful any direction you turn if you don’t want to blow on what you just blew off.  Even Chloe learned to keep her distance the first time I turned it on in her direction and for two days her fur looked like it had been caught in a hurricane blowing in the tail direction.
            Perhaps the most obvious point is to always blow in the direction of the wind.  I have quit trying to wait till the wind isn’t blowing, not out in the country in the middle of a field—I would never get it done.  So I settle for the couple of hours the carport looks nice afterward, and remind myself how awful it would have looked if I had just let the leaves and sand pile up.  But I have learned to test the wind.  It is much easier to blow the leaves the way the wind is blowing them anyway.  Otherwise it’s exactly like paddling upriver.  You can do it, but it takes a whole lot more work.
            I think that may be the best way to judge most decisions you have to make as a Christian—that is, conversely.  If it’s too easy, it’s probably the wrong decision.  If it doesn’t cost you anything, you are probably selling your soul. 
            God has always expected his people to make tough decisions.  By faith Moses, when he was grown up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter, choosing rather to be mistreated with the people of God than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin. He considered the reproach of Christ greater wealth than the treasures of Egypt, for he was looking to the reward, Heb 11:24-26.  Moses chose God instead of wealth and power.
            Joseph chose prison instead of adultery, Gen 39:9.  Ruth chose a life of poverty (she thought) so she could worship God and be a part of his people rather than the comfort of her own culture, Ruth 1:16.  The apostles chose to follow an unpopular route that led to death, instead of staying in good graces with the powers that be and living a normal life.  For I think that God has exhibited us apostles as last of all, like men sentenced to death, because we have become a spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men. We are fools for Christ's sake…we [are held] in disrepute. To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless, and we labor, working with our own hands. When reviled, we bless; when persecuted, we endure; when slandered, we entreat. We have become, and are still, like the scum of the world, the refuse of all things, 1Cor 4:9-13.
            God’s people have always been challenged with this decision.  “Choose this day whom you will serve,” Joshua demanded of Israel, 24:15.  “How long will you go limping between two opinions?” Elijah asked in 1 Kgs 18:21.  Make a decision, they were saying.  We face the same challenge, and we face it every day. 
            If life has confronted you with a decision, I can almost guarantee you that the hard choice is the right one.  You have to blow against the winds of society, and even worse, the winds of self.  Christianity has never been the easy way out.  Yet, when you set your priorities correctly and think in spiritually mature terms, it’s the only obvious one.
 
I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose life that you and your offspring may live, loving the LORD your God, obeying his voice and holding fast to him, for he is your life and length of days… Deut 30:19-20.
 
Dene Ward

One of the prettiest views of our property in North Florida is coming down the shady lane late in the afternoon as the western sun sets behind the tall pines.  The live oaks spread their arms over the house and carport and most of the yard, dripping with Spanish moss and providing an even deeper shade over the lush green grass.  It isn’t fancy by any means.  It isn’t the grandeur of mountains and valleys that dwarf the human spirit.  It isn’t the sculptured and manicured lawn of a great mansion.  But it’s homey and comfortable and inviting.
            All that moss is part of the charm.  We’ve had people try to tell us to remove it.  “It’s a parasite,” they tell us, a common misconception.  Actually, it’s a bromeliad, related to the pineapple.  According to the Sarasota County Forestry Division, Spanish moss, the beard of ancient live oaks, does not jeopardize the trees.  It does not steal nutrients.  It is an air plant that prefers to perch on horizontal limbs like those of live oaks, which provide more access to sunlight and water than vertical limbs.  It processes its food from the rainwater that runs off the leaves and limbs of the trees.  Nothing is stolen from the tree.  Just look around.  Moss even hangs from power lines and fences, and it seems to prefer dead trees to live ones.  So much for the myth that it’s a parasite.
            However, the moss can become so thick that it shades the leaves of the trees from the sunshine, the thing necessary for photosynthesis.  During the rainy season, thick moss can become so heavy that it breaks branches. 
            I think Spanish moss must be a little like worry.  Let’s dismiss the notion that any worry at all is a sin.  Paul talks about “the daily pressure on me of my anxiety for all the churches,” 2 Cor 11:28.  He may not use the word “worry,” but that is exactly what he is talking about—anxiety, care, concern, the “daily pressure.”  Sometimes that emotion is legitimate and we become petty when we start forbidding certain words while accepting the feelings as long as we call it something else.
            Yet worldly care and worry can rob us of our spirituality and our usefulness to God.  It can make us “unfruitful,” Mark 4:19.  It can “entangle” us in worldly pursuits, 2 Tim 2:4.  It can tell tales about our hearts with misplaced priorities, Luke 12:22,23, doubt, Luke 12:29, and lack of faith, Matt 6:30.  All of that can choke the word right out of us and when trials come, instead of trusting a God who loves us and provides our needs, we may break from the stress.
            If you have trouble with worry, camp awhile in Matthew 6.  Don’t you understand, Jesus asks, that life is more than food and clothing, v 25?  Don’t you know that God loves you even more than he loves the birds and the flowers, vv 26,30?  Are you so arrogant that you think your worry will fix anything, v 27?  Don’t you have more faith than the heathens, vv 30,32?  Jesus always has a way of laying it on the line, doesn’t he?
            While there may be legitimate concerns, things we pray about even in agony as Jesus did in Gethsemane, and there may be good things that occupy our minds, like our care for the spread of the gospel and the growth of the church and the spiritual progress of our children, don’t let the trivial things, the things of this life that you can’t do anything about anyway, become such a heavy burden that you break under its weight.  Rid yourself of the moss that robs you of the Light.  “Let not your hearts be troubled,” Jesus said, John 14:27.  He came to bring us peace instead.
 
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid. John 14:27
 
Dene Ward

Thirty-three years ago we moved onto this "back forty," across a grassy stretch between two fences, over a low rise deep into the live oaks, around the moss-laden corner and down the hill to what had last been a watermelon field.  We mowed it little by little, landscaped it with a wheelbarrow and a shovel, and began planting—a garden first, then roses, azaleas, blueberries, grape vines, crepe myrtles, daylilies, amaryllises, jasmine, jessamine, and finally, a few annuals.  Then came the trees—a few oaks, including a huge acorn we brought back from a camping trip in north Georgia, a sycamore, a maple, a couple of apples, a peach, and then two pecan trees, right in the middle of the west field.  Finally we had our dream property, but nature refused to cooperate on a few things.
            First the apple trees died, then the peaches.  "Too close to oak trees," the county agent said.  Now the blueberries have stopped bearing, and yes, they are right next to what used to be a small oak—but that was three decades ago.  It now towers over them.  And the pecans?  They might be six feet tall after all these years, and we haven't had the first pecan.  "Too close to the pine trees," we were told, pines that at the time were hardly more than fat sticks in the ground, but are now well over forty feet tall.  "They have ruined the soil for pecans."
            So what can we glean from this?  What are we surrounding ourselves with?  What has "ruined our soil?"  What has made us completely unfit for the kingdom?
            The first thing that comes to mind is, Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for you compass sea and land to make one proselyte; and when he is become so, you make him twofold more a son of hell than yourselves. (Matt 23:15).  If we aren't careful, we can stunt the growth of new Christians.  Barnes says the Jews did this by converting for the sole purpose of inflating their numbers and then not teaching the former pagans how to live by God's law.  Add to that, when a hypocrite converts someone, just exactly what does he probably teach them to be?  Another hypocrite just like he was.  So in either case, we have left them as weak pecan trees in the midst of stronger pines who ruin the soil in which they have been planted.
            But let's not forget the obvious application.  Be not deceived: Evil companionships corrupt good morals. (1Cor 15:33)
            This is not about whether or not you should go out into the world to make contacts and teach.  Of course you should.  But soil is where a tree gains its nutrients and its life-giving water.  When I talk to my neighbors, when I work with my colleagues, where do I go for sustenance?  Do I stay with them and imbibe their values, or do I return to my core group, to my support system, to regain my strength?  Am I careful to monitor myself for signs that I may be taking in the wrong kind of nutrition and passing it off as "seeking the lost?" 
            The area in which we plant ourselves should have access to light, not be dwarfed by taller, stronger trees who smother us in their own values.  WE need to be the oaks, not the pecans, the ones who influence the weak, not the other way around.  Just who is influencing whom in your case?
            Stop and check yourself today.  It did not take us thirty years to know we had a problem with these trees.  When a five foot tall tree has not grown an inch in a year, something is amiss.  Have you grown?  Have I?  Are we better than we were five years ago?  Or do we still fight the same battles in the same way with the same meager results—or even fail? 
            So ask yourself, who had you rather spend time with?  Who do you go to for advice?  Who influences your behavior more than anyone else?  If the answer is NOT "godly brothers and sisters," maybe you are nothing more than a stunted pecan tree.  If you think those towering pines and oaks who are affecting your growth have any real respect for you, you are sadly mistaken.  They see you for what you are—a weak, scrawny pecan tree.  So does God.
 
Let no one deceive himself. If anyone among you thinks that he is wise in this age, let him become a fool that he may become wise. (1Cor 3:18)
 
Dene Ward

The past few years big black gnats have reached almost plague proportions.  Generally they begin about May and before we know it we are swatting in the kitchen, under the lamps, and especially at the table.  You look down and if you aren't quick enough, the one that lands in your soup drowns in it.  If you talk too much, you swallow one, and you never, ever leave a piece of pie sitting out for longer than five seconds without covering it up.  They breed in the garbage can, in the bathroom drains, and in the burn box.  Every fruit fly trap holds forty bodies in one day's time, and still you swat.
            So we replaced our defunct atomizer, the one that puffs out a spray of insecticide every 15 minutes from its place high on the book case—and noticed no difference whatsoever.  Until we went south to babysit for three days.  When we arrived back home, we trudged in, bodies weary from child love and heavy traffic, and came to a complete halt.  The floor was covered in dead gnats.  You couldn't walk through them without smashing them and tracking them everywhere.  A broom and a dustpan garnered us a half cup of dead gnats.  Now that is a load of bugs!
            You can think you don't make a difference in this world.  Your kind deeds to your neighbors, your level of patience in restaurants and doctors' offices and on the road, your invitations to worship or Bible study, your words of encouragement to a brother or sister in distress seem small and insignificant.  But they are not.  They add up and they will have an effect. 
            You may never know about it.  I meet people all the time who, when discovering who my parents were, suddenly pour out their appreciation for things that I never knew about.  I hear about their love, their generosity, their encouragement, their examples.  I hear praise and gratitude for people I never really thought of as great heroes of faith, and why?  Because I was watching them one atomizer puff at a time.  I never saw the floor full of gnats that accrued after a lifetime of righteousness.
            The same thing can be true of you.  You may not be able to teach a Bible class that converts a dozen sinners in a year, much less a day.  You may not have the time and money to give much more than a couple hours a week to serving, and that scattered about among a large bunch of needy folks.  But you can puff out a kind word here and there, a card of encouragement every week or so, a visit or two every week, a meal for a sick family when needed, and a consistent example of faithfulness in your meetings with the assembly and your daily example of life. 
            So a half a cup of dead gnats is not exactly the metaphor you want to be remembered by, but consider this.  Every dead gnat is a defeat for Satan; a bout with selfishness or an impatient lack of consideration or the distraction with the world that you have overcome by your faithfully pursuing righteousness in your life, one word or deed at a time, again and again and again.  Satan tries to tell you that it won't matter, it's all too small to make a difference.  Show him your dustpan and gloat in his face.
            One puff at a time will get you, and maybe a few others with you, to Heaven.
 
The saying is trustworthy, and I want you to insist on these things, so that those who have believed in God may be careful to devote themselves to good works. These things are excellent and profitable for people. Titus 3:8
 
Dene Ward
 

When life hands you a need to move to another location, you suddenly see your home with fresh eyes.
            We have been on this property 38 years.  Our boys were 6 and 8 when we bought this land, so most of their growing up memories are here.  Our pets are buried on this land, several under blooming perennials so we will always know where they lie and can see them from a distance.  Between landscaping the rain flow with a shovel and the boys' little red wagon (we couldn't even afford a wheelbarrow in the early days!), growing an 80 x 80 garden every year, then canning and preserving and pickling all summer, cutting wood for the woodstove which kept our electric bill where we could afford it in the winter, shooting poisonous snakes, marauding bobcats in the chicken pen, and rabid animals, and hauling water for days after every hurricane until the power came back on, we have watered this property with our literal blood, sweat, and tears.  Little by little we fixed it up exactly like we wanted it.  No other manufactured home of this age has a kitchen the size of mine with the umpteen feet of counter space stretched over 17 cabinets and 13 drawers.  And no other has a porcelain-tiled screened porch connected to an oversized carport.  No other has a shower you could have a party in! (We didn't.)
            Then there is the property itself.  Driving down the lane canopied with live oaks makes guests slow down just so they can look around.  In the spring, the entrance to the "yard" portion of our five acres is guarded by azaleas covered with blooms, and the same blooms surround the house.  But let's back up. 
            We start the year with the yellow trumpets of Carolina jessamine in January, followed by azaleas of all shades in late January and throughout February.  The amaryllises begin to open in March.  About that time the climbing roses start in and last a good month before taking a break through the heat.  In April the jasmine nearly knock you over with their fragrance, and the wildflowers show their first color with fire engine red and pink and white phlox.  In May we can count up to 70 day lilies every morning.  The wildflowers will last through June with loads of bright yellow black-eyed Susans finishing up the color parade of red, pink, orange, purple, and yellow that began back in late April.  Then the heat kicks in and things slow down, a few blue plumbago brightening the heat waves rising from the ground and maybe a rose or two and the crepe myrtles.  By October we are back in full swing—mums overflowing their bed, followed by camellias in late November and December, and on we go to the jessamine again in January as the cycle begins anew.  But now…
             Now we will start all over again, with something smaller and nowhere near like we want it, and with very few years left to make it that way.  And it will be in a subdivision!  In the city!  I am certain that when we turn our heads for one last look as we drive down this beautiful lane on our way to a new place and a new life, our eyes will tear up and our throats will tighten.  Most of our lives were lived on this ground and in this far from luxurious home, but it was ours and we loved it.
            And then we will both remember—there is a far better home awaiting us.  One with far more glory than even the billows of colorful blooms, and far more warmth and love than even the memories of little boys climbing trees and chasing balls of all sorts, rolling around on the grass with their beloved yellow lab Bart, gathering eggs, silking the corn before the assembly line of putting it up in the freezer, cheeks full of fresh blueberries along with blue-stained lips and fingers.  Yes, something far better, far more glorious, so far above what we think is special here that we cannot even imagine the truth of it despite God's attempts to describe it in our language.
          And we will never, ever have to drive away, leaving it all behind for someone else who won't realize how precious it all is.  That last home will be our forever home, and that is the only one that really counts.
 
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls (1Pet 1:3-9).
 
Dene Ward

The cliché is now true—my doctor is my social life.  When you start seeing the same issues of the same magazines in four different offices, you know it's so.  So the other day I actually found a new magazine to look at:  Country Living.  Let me look through this, I thought.  Maybe I am one of the few here who could appreciate it. 
            Boy, was I wrong.  In fact, the title of this magazine was wrong.  This was not country living it depicted.  It was some wealthy people who decided they wanted to get out of town and thought the peace and quiet would be wonderful, but only a few minutes a day of it.  I know them personally.  We have several within a mile of us.  One of their homes (well, it might as well have been one of the ones near us) was showcased in a ten page spread so you could copy their decorating schemes.  Notice these items:
            Plank floors in a 15 x 20 kitchen--(Are they planning to square dance in it?)
            A pedestal sink in the "powder room"--(A powder room?  A mud room out in the country, maybe, but forget powdering your nose if you're going out to the garden in June or July.) 
            Cabinet hardware at $25 each piece--(A $25 cabinet knob?  I mean, really, all you do is pull the thing, and sometimes you still have some of that garden mud on your hands when you do, or maybe a bunch of pie dough.)
            $35 each throw pillows in an all-white room--(An all-white room in the country?  Where there are no sidewalks and you have to walk through the mud to get to the steps?)
            $1400 each wicker chairs on the front porch--(I couldn't relax just walking ten feet away from a $1400 chair, much less sitting in it.  And no one in their right mind would shell peas or shuck corn in it. So what's it good for?)
No, this is not country living.  It is mere pretense.  In fact, our experience has been that these are the folks who pack up and head back into town (a 50-60 mile round trip) 5 or 6 days a week to go shopping, play a round of golf or a set of tennis, have lunch with the girls, or get a manicure.  The only thing they do in the country is sleep.  Try inviting them to help with hog-slaughtering day in return for a share of the meat and watch them melt into a pale puddle of angst.
            But—take a look around you on Sunday morning and you will find that this magazine isn’t the only place for pretenders.  Some people go to church because you are "supposed to."  That's what good, moral people do.  I grew up around a lot of folks like that.  Some choose a place out of convenience, not because they believe what it teaches.  Others go because their parents raised them that way, not out of any real conviction.  Some go for the benefits—people come see you when you're sick, someone will always help out if you have a need, and there is always a preacher handy for weddings and funerals.
            So let's think about it this morning.  Why am I where I am on Sunday mornings?  If I can't come up with an answer beyond the ones above, I just might have a problem.  I might be no more a Christian than those folks I know who are not "country people," no matter where their home happens to be located.  God expects a commitment—one of the heart, one of faith, one of understanding what you believe and why, and being willing to stand up for it. 
God expects Christians who really are.
 
“As for you, son of man, your people who talk together about you by the walls and at the doors of the houses, say to one another, each to his brother, ‘Come, and hear what the word is that comes from the LORD.’ And they come to you as people come, and they sit before you as my people, and they hear what you say but they will not do it; for with lustful talk in their mouths they act; their heart is set on their gain. And behold, you are to them like one who sings lovely songs with a beautiful voice and plays well on an instrument, for they hear what you say, but they will not do it. (Ezek 33:30-32)
 
Dene Ward

The cliché is now true—my doctor is my social life.  When you start seeing the same issues of the same magazines in four different offices, you know it's so.  So the other day I actually found a new magazine to look at:  Country Living.  Let me look through this, I thought.  Maybe I am one of the few here who could appreciate it. 
            Boy, was I wrong.  In fact, the title of this magazine was wrong.  This was not country living it depicted.  It was some wealthy people who decided they wanted to get out of town and thought the peace and quiet would be wonderful, but only a few minutes a day of it.  I know them personally.  We have several within a mile of us.  One of their homes (well, it might as well have been one of the ones near us) was showcased in a ten page spread so you could copy their decorating schemes.  Notice these items:
            Plank floors in a 15 x 20 kitchen--(Are they planning to square dance in it?)
            A pedestal sink in the "powder room"--(A powder room?  A mud room out in the country, maybe, but forget powdering your nose if you're going out to the garden in June or July.) 
            Cabinet hardware at $25 each piece--(A $25 cabinet knob?  I mean, really, all you do is pull the thing, and sometimes you still have some of that garden mud on your hands when you do.)
            $35 each throw pillows in an all-white room--(An all-white room in the country?  Where there are no sidewalks and you have to walk through the mud to get to the steps?)
            $1400 each wicker chairs on the front porch--(I couldn't relax just walking ten feet away from a $1400 chair, much less sitting in it.  And no one in their right mind would shell peas or shuck corn in it. So what's it good for?)
No, this is not country living.  It is mere pretense.  In fact, our experience has been that these are the folks who pack up and head back into town (a 50-60 mile round trip) 5 or 6 days a week to go shopping, play a round of golf or a set of tennis, have lunch with the girls, or get a manicure.  The only thing they do in the country is sleep.  Try inviting them to help with hog-slaughtering day in return for a share of the meat and watch them melt into a pale puddle of angst.
            But—take a look around you on Sunday morning and you will find that this magazine isn’t the only place for pretenders.  Some people go to church because you are "supposed to."  That's what good, moral people do.  I grew up around a lot of folks like that.  Some choose a place out of convenience, not because they believe what it teaches.  Others go because their parents raised them that way, not out of any real conviction.  Some go for the benefits—people come see you when you're sick, someone will always help out if you have a need, and there is always a preacher handy for weddings and funerals.
            So let's think about it this morning.  Why am I where I am on Sunday mornings?  If I can't come up with an answer beyond the ones above, I just might have a problem.  I might be no more a Christian than those folks I know who are not "country people," no matter where their home happens to be located.  God expects a commitment—one of the heart, one of faith, one of understanding what you believe and why, and being willing to stand up for it. 
God expects Christians who really are.
 
“As for you, son of man, your people who talk together about you by the walls and at the doors of the houses, say to one another, each to his brother, ‘Come, and hear what the word is that comes from the LORD.’ And they come to you as people come, and they sit before you as my people, and they hear what you say but they will not do it; for with lustful talk in their mouths they act; their heart is set on their gain. And behold, you are to them like one who sings lovely songs with a beautiful voice and plays well on an instrument, for they hear what you say, but they will not do it. (Ezek 33:30-32)
 
Dene Ward

It did not take long for this city girl to discover one common problem with country life--mice.  One morning I walked out to the kitchen to discover that the dog had had a playmate all night, and it was lying right in the doorway to the kitchen, all “played” out.  So we set out traps, especially in the large walk-in pantry/laundry area.  If anything would attract the mice we figured it would be the warmth from the water heater and the food on the shelves.
            The pantry shared a wall with the dining area.  One frigid morning we were eating breakfast when we suddenly heard a sharp snap, followed by a thump on that wall’s other side, then squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, and a scrambling of tiny feet.  I didn’t think this was the way mousetraps were supposed to work, but what did I know?  Before that fall, I had never even seen one except on cartoons.
            Keith walked around, peered into the pantry, and started laughing.  When we had set the trap inside the door, we had pushed it in with the peanut butter side against the wall and the spring on the side toward the door.  Evidently the mouse had climbed onto the spring and when he started nibbling on the peanut butter, it had snapped, catapulting him into the wall.  Having survived the trap, he had run away unscathed except, perhaps, for a nasty bump on the head.
            That night we reset the trap, this time pushing it in the other way around.  Sure enough, as we were eating breakfast the next morning we heard the snap, followed by a deathly quiet.  Keith disposed of the interloper after we finished eating.
            That mouse thought he had found a way around the trap.  That dumb animal thought he was safe because one time he had had a nibble without it killing him.  If mice could think such things, I could just imagine, “It won’t happen to me,” coming out of his mouth, just like a few dumb humans I know of.  It isn’t enough to stay out of the trap—you have to stay completely away from it.  Thorns and snares are in the way of the perverse; He who keeps his soul shall be far from them, Prov 22:5.
            Job pictures the life of the wicked as nothing but snares, 18:8-10.  Jeremiah says they lay snares for the righteous, 5:26.  How do they do that?  By their very lifestyles.  We look, and we want, and we wish, and suddenly we do—just like they do.  God warned the Israelites not to even covet the gold and silver covering the idols, lest you be snared therein, Deut 7:25.  It is not enough to just want their lives and “not do the sins they do—I know better than that!”  How can we not eventually fall into the same things they did?  Because, like that mouse, we think we have found a way to nibble on one side and not be caught by the other.
            The Proverb writer says we are often ensnared “with the words of our own mouths,” 6:2.  We say we abhor sin, we say we don’t want to do bad things, but with the same mouth we idolize people who live without morals, without integrity, and without self-control, people who care nothing at all about God.  They may even wear crosses around their necks and thank the Lord in public, but they turn right around and profane Him with their lives.  And we think we wouldn’t be trapped by sin the same way they are?  How foolish, how immature can we be?
            Don’t glamorize sin.  Don’t worship those who do.  Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can sit on one side of the mousetrap and have a bite of something good, and a fun, and exciting ride to boot.  The next time you nibble, someone may very well have turned the mousetrap around.
 
But my eyes are toward you, O GOD, my Lord; in you I seek refuge; leave me not defenseless!
Keep me from the trap that they have laid for me and from the snares of evildoers!  Psalm 141:8,9.